by Lisa Swallow
My son.
He needs a name, to exist as a reality and not an abstract. It’s months since we discussed boys names, and I can’t remember what Sky liked. At this rate he’s going to think his name is little dude or buddy.
I stay in London. The apartment contains a nursery we created because we’re likely to spend time here even though Sky’s reticence over returning makes sense. Luckily, we bought the cot, pram, and other necessary stuff, but not many clothes.
The first person to step in, and biggest help, is Cerys. Her quiet nature is underpinned by the ability to take control of a situation and helps me stay at a depth I can handle. She suggests her nanny help out, but I don’t want a stranger involved. Nobody can see I’m failing, and I can’t let Sky down again. She’s always insistent we won’t have a nanny.
I’m happy to leave my son with Cerys while I rest after my visits to Sky, and he’s fussed over by Ella too. My aching heart soothes as I realise I do have family after all; people prepared to band together and help as if we’re connected by blood.
Bryn’s in Australia and calls to check on me every day. Jem asks if I want Ruby’s advice, but—and this sounds odd—I don’t want him to see I’m falling short as a husband and dad when he’s the epitome of a happy family with Ruby. If I saw their perfect happiness, it would destroy me right now.
Sky’s mum arrives too, and suddenly the apartment fills with people all wanting to help and it fucks with my head. Liam tiptoes around the subject whereas Karen full on grills me about her daughter’s mental state.
At least with them around, I can spend hours with Sky watching for signs she’s improving. Sky isn’t herself, and now she’s on medication, she often sleeps while I’m there, and I hold her hand or watch her.
The first couple of days she spent at the clinic, she refused to speak to me, angry for forcing her to go and for not believing her. I refused to leave.
As the days pass, she gradually pays attention to the world and our baby, the old Sky edging back and the confusion in her eyes lessening. I quiz the staff, and they update me on her progress, because Sky won’t.
The day she held our son and suggested we think about names, the shadows surrounding my heart faded, and I held back breaking down.
Today, I visit her alone. The sun shines through the open curtains, and I arrive to find Sky sitting in an armchair in her large room, reading. I dip my head to read the cover as I walk in. “More hot billionaires, huh?” I tease.
Sky looks up and her pale face breaks into a smile as she sees me. The book’s thrown to one side as she rushes over to grab me in a hug. I fold her in my arms and dig my fingers into her hair, relieved some of the recent distance and blame has passed.
“How are you feeling today?” I ask.
She pulls away and smiles. The last few times, her sunken eyes were dull, but today they’re brighter. “I think I’m getting used to the medication. I’m not as tired.”
I tense because I’ve spoken to doctors about this, and I don’t want to face the truth. Postnatal depression is likely to hit, even though her delusion lessened. Watching Sky suffer rips away the happiness we should share.
“That’s good to hear.” I sit in the armchair still warm from her body and pull Sky onto my lap. “Has the doctor spoken to you about coming home?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t look happy about that.”
“I’m scared I won’t love him,” she says. “I’m trying, but I’m tired, and my head is weird still, and—”
I silence her with a soft kiss. The last couple of days, baby has stayed with Sky in the clinic as the bond gradually grows. I’ve also stayed later, the staff now used to my refusal to leave Sky until she’s asleep, and my reluctance to leave my son behind. Last night, Sky struggled again so I took him home.
I rest my head on hers. “I know we have a long way to go, but one day at a time. We’ll do everything we can to fix this.”
“Fix this.” She laughs softly. “Everybody’s trying. I’m trying. I would never hurt him.” Her voice cracks.
“I know you won’t. Nobody thinks you will.” Eager for a subject change I delve into my pockets. “Look, I brought more photos.”
I pull out the printed images and spread them onto the small table positioned nearby. Last week, Sky refused to look at them on my phone, so I printed the images to show her. She pushes through them with shaking fingers until she finds one taken in the hospital the day he was born, shortly after I arrived.
Sky touches our smiling faces. “I don’t remember the picture being taken. I don’t remember much.”
I don’t reply and dig through to find another of her smiling down at our son in a way that breaks my heart now I know what turmoil churned inside her. “Remember this one?”
She peers closer. “I recognise the clothes. Remember we bought that at the little boutique in France, the one time I came with you?”
“I do. Happy times.” I take her other hand and rub my fingers across her knuckles. “Have you spoken to people about him, about—”
The elephant in the room, the one the medical staff chastise me about avoiding at all costs, terrified I’ll send her spinning back into psychosis again.
“How I feel about our son?” Sky turns her head, and the anguish on her face rips through all the strength I’ve held, tearing down the walls against the hurt. She touches my face. “Please, Dylan. Don’t hate me.”
“How could I hate you?” My voice thickens with the growing emotion. “I love you unconditionally, Sky. You’re unwell, that’s all. And you’ll get better.”
“But I resented a baby I didn’t think was mine. I didn’t want you giving your love to the wrong child, and now I hate myself. I missed allowing myself close. He’s three weeks old, and I—”
“Sky. Stop that.”
“You took him home last night. Why didn’t you bring him today?” she whispers.
“Because when you’re tired, you don’t want to see him.”
“I think this is a good thing I do,” she whispers. “I feel empty now, but because I don’t have my baby.”
“He is here,” I say in a soft voice. “I left him with the nurses in case you didn’t… Yeah.”
“I understand.”
“He needs his mum. I’m a bit shit at doing the baby thing on my own.”
Sky smiles; a genuine Sky smile lights my day, illuminating the dark corner I’ve lived in.
“Where is he?” she asks.
I find the nurses fussing over him, and when I carry our son back to Sky in the crook of my arm, I’m watched the way I have been my whole adult life, but this time I want them to see me. Sky stands in the window, arms wrapped around herself, and I hesitate. Has she changed her mind? She’s furthest from the door that she can get.
Sky approaches and pushes the blanket from his face. He sucks on his tiny fist, eyes wide as he stares up. Carefully, Sky takes him in her arms and looks down.
“His eyes changed colour.” No, not again. “Sorry, I don’t mean I think he’s a different baby. I mean like yours do. He looks like you.”
Arms still wrapped around our son, Sky buries her face in my chest and her body moves in the way it does when she’s trying not to let go of her bravery. Sky hates people now know where she is, that they see her weakness, but there’s nothing but sympathy for her.
“Have you given him a name?” she asks, voice muffled by my shirt.
“What the hell? No way. I don’t want a fight. We name him together.”
“I don’t like Lennon. Did you still want a Welsh name? I liked some of those.”
I tip Sky’s chin to meet her eyes. “Well, did you know my name is in the top ten? Twice.”
“What top ten?”
“Welsh boys names. Dylan and Morgan.”
“Uh huh. Morgan Morgan doesn’t quite work.” She smiles again, and I give her a “what?” look. “You’re not at number one on a list, Dylan? Unheard of.”
“Actually,
you’ll find I am.” I pull my phone out to search the list, thrilled she’s behaving like my Sky with her banter. “See!”
Sky shakes her head at me and takes the phone. “Right. I don’t think this list is current though. You’re funny.” For a few moments, she studies the screen. “Are there any others you like on here? The one time we spoke about boys names you came up with a few that were okay.”
“Okay?” I poke her in the side. “His name has to be one that’s more than okay. Do you have any ideas at all?”
“I think we spoke about some of these.” She rubs her mouth. “On this list, Rhys is number two, between Dylan and Morgan.” She smiles at me. “Maybe a sign? It fits, the way your life is wrapped around him.”
“Rhys? Hang on.” I take the phone back and type on the screen. “I want to know what it means.”
“And?”
“Ardour.”
“I like that.” She strokes our son’s forehead. “Something your dad is always full of and I imagine you’ll be the same.”
The pair look at each other, Sky’s face soft with the love that I know she feels. She kisses his forehead. “What do you think? Do you like Rhys?” she asks him.
“I do.” I’m unable to say more, to explain how this moment means more to me than the day I first held him.
“And when you say the name, I hear your Welsh accent.” Sky touches my face. “I think it’s perfect.”
“And I want this to be perfect,” I say. “I’ll do anything I can to make that happen.”
She places her lips on Rhys’s head again, then inhales shakily. “I’m going to make up for the last few weeks.”
I wrap an arm around her shoulders holding them both close. “You have the rest of his life to love him.”
“I’m scared. Scared I won’t be enough. That I can’t do this.”
“You’re not alone, Sky. You’ll never be alone. I told you that so long ago. We’ll fight this together and win. We always fight, and we always win.”
31
SKY
Some days are better than others, but however much Dylan does to help with Rhys, however many nights he allows me to sleep while he takes care of him, I still have days I can’t cope. Thoughts of what I did the day I took Rhys to the hospital sicken me, and on my low days, the guilt eats into my heart as I hold him tight.
A distance grows between Dylan and me too as the weeks pass and as pressure mounts on him. He’s convinced his role is to make us both happy, and I gently explain he can never achieve this. Dylan agrees, but doesn’t listen, and his frustration with the situation spills out adding to my guilt.
Other days, the world looks brighter, and I have energy to put into more than looking after Rhys. Those days I don’t worry about being a perfect mother and go with the flow. As the months pass, those days become more frequent and push away the darker ones. But a numbness remains, frustrating, because I don’t know how to take it away.
Lily’s trial looms. Dylan’s intense rage at Lily doesn’t ebb, and he blames her for my illness afterwards. Of course the horror around the day, and my baby’s birth a million miles from what I expected didn’t help, but the labour would’ve happened anyway. If I’d returned to an empty house, how would I’ve coped with a baby coming quicker than an ambulance?
But I don’t think about that day.
I don’t think about Lily.
Rhys sits on my lap, and I attempt to show him pictures in a cardboard book but all he wants is to chew the corner. I give in and put the book down, passing him his favourite toy: a plastic ring ridged in places with attachments that crinkle when he squeezes. He dribbles around the toy in his mouth, eyes fixed on mine. Rhys’s wispy hair grows blond, with big blue eyes to match his dad’s.
Despite my struggles, the love I have for my son grows every day, and I hug him closer, kissing his face and protesting when he takes a fistful of my hair.
“You’ll be like your daddy and break hearts,” I whisper, and his smile grows, as if he knows what I’m saying. He already does. Dylan’s fans are crazy over his son, and every woman we meet gushes how beautiful he is.
Some days, we sit, the three of us together on the sofa, watching TV as if we’re as ordinary as any new family. These peaceful times recharge us, the world Dylan and me created now contains somebody else; days filled with love and laughter, the ones where the connection between Dylan and me rebuilds if we’ve had a shaky week.
The days I hold onto on my darkest, to remind myself life is good.
I cradle Rhys in my arms, tuned into his actions, aware he’s becoming sleepy. He sucks on the toy, eyes heavy as he drifts in and out of sleep until his eyes stay closed. I’m repeatedly told not to compare myself to mums who instantly bond with their babies, that his early days will have no effect on him, and I slowly accept this. Cuddling him against my chest, his head beneath my chin, I fight against drifting to sleep too.
Time to make the most of my quiet time.
I lay Rhys down for a sleep in the nearby bassinette and curl up on the sofa to bury myself in this week’s magazine. I still read the gossip rags; I shouldn’t, but I can’t help myself. Sometimes, watching pressure on other stars adds a weird sense of normal because they share the problems in my world.
Since I stepped forward and admitted my struggle with postnatal depression, the scrutiny on us drops. I agree to an interview and first photos of Rhys in return for a large charity donation. A very skeletal interview with no mention of the birth or the episode preceding the depression.
Episode. I swallow down the memory.
The front door slams closed, as Dylan always does despite my pleas not to because it disturbs Rhys. He startles with a small noise, but then his head lolls back into sleep.
Dylan appears in the lounge, bringing with him the happy energy he creates when he’s spent time working on his music. “Hey, beautiful girl.” I place a finger on my lips and nod at Rhys. Dylan lowers his voice “Oh. Sorry.”
He crouches down and gazes at his son. “And hey, beautiful boy,” he says with a smile before standing. “I won’t pick him up if he’s sleeping.”
“Thanks.”
He flops onto the sofa next to me and leans in for a soft kiss, stroking my cheek as he does. “Why are you reading that shit again, Sky?”
“Curiosity.”
“Crazy woman.” He rests his feet on the low table.
“Says in here there’re a few women with gynaecological problems, thanks to you.” I flick a page over and bite down a smile.
He gives me a huh? face.
“There’s a picture here of you and Rhys.” I hold up the magazine, a picture of us walking through the London streets, hand in hand, Rhys snuggled into a carrier against Dylan’s chest, other arm protectively around his son.
“You make no bloody sense sometimes,” he mutters and kicks off his shoes.
“Apparently you make women’s ovaries explode,” I lick my finger and flick to the next page. “Unpleasant.”
“What the…? Who the hell said that?”
“It’s a thing Dylan, y’know, like you melting girl’s panties.” I snort to myself.
“Can you not?” he says, but he’s grinning too.
“You’re a dangerous man, Mr Morgan.”
Dylan grabs the magazine and throws it to one side. “Kiss me, Mrs Morgan.”
I move my face closer, and he wraps a hand into my hair, stopping me drawing away. “How’re the release plans going?” I ask, mouth almost touching his still.
“Pretty good. Missed you.”
“You’ve only been in London overnight.”
“Wish you’d come with me.”
I untangle my hair from his fingers and draw my head back. “Once we’ve found a new place.”
Our silent acknowledgment why I don’t travel to London with him passes. I no longer want to live in our apartment, suggesting now we have Rhys we should find a family home in London, like Liam’s and Jem’s. The bad associations with the a
partment do not help, but I don’t admit this is a bigger reason than wanting a garden for my child who can’t walk yet.
For now, I’m happy in Berkshire, away from the noise and speed of the city confusing my head.
“Are you heading back tomorrow?” I ask.
“Changed my meeting to next week.”
“Again?”
“I should be here, with you. I can’t spend days away working on the album.” He pauses. “I might push back the release date.”
“No, Dylan! You can’t, not because of me. We spoke about this before Rhys was born. Three months, and then we schedule everything.”
“Yeah, but you’re more important. Besides, thanks to Mr Impatient, I had an extra month.”
I shift away and pull on my serious face. “The idea is we move on and make life happen the way we planned, instead of becoming dragged down by this. You can’t fix me. You support me, and I love you so bloody much for that, but I won’t be responsible for screwing this up for you.”
“I feel like I should put my energy into us.”
“I want you to use some of that energy to be the Dylan passionate about his music, following his dreams while still loving and supporting his family. If you need to spend days in rehearsals or meetings, go. I’m fine.”
“But you’re not fine.”
“And we both admit that.” I tense. “Please, don’t let this ruin anything else. I don’t want to argue.”
He rests his feet on the table and taps his toes together. “No point. I’m never going to win arguments with you, am I?”
“Not often. And I’m not backing down on this one. The world needs to hear this album; to see what you can do, because you are amazing.” I poke him. “Even I like this one.”
“You’re a hard taskmaster, Sky.”
“And you need to hold onto who you are.”
On the edge of disagreement, we watch each other warily. My mood fluctuates a lot, and it’s tough on us both. Once a couple become parents, life changes, but for us the challenges would be different. I never expected this to be one of them.
The exhaustion and illness ate away some closeness we had before Rhys arrived, affecting all areas of our relationship. I don’t mean to push Dylan away, and often don’t realise I am, but as new parents who refuse to employ outside help, our energy splits in many directions. I don’t worry Dylan will look elsewhere for attention or escape, apart from on the dark days I can’t imagine why he would love this miserable, tired woman. I have to trust him and not listen to my paranoia.
